


Field of Sunflowers

by FluffyBeaumont



Category: 19th Century CE RPF, Artists RPF
Genre: First Time, France (Country), Friends to Lovers, Love, Lust, M/M, Outdoor Sex, POV First Person, Summer, Summer Love, Summer Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-07-29 01:14:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20073709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FluffyBeaumont/pseuds/FluffyBeaumont
Summary: A stand-alone Gauguin/Van Gogh fic from Gauguin's POV. Not related to other stories I've written in this fandom. Paul Gauguin finds Vincent van Gogh sleeping in a field of sunflowers on a hot August day in Arles and gives in to his feelings of lust and admiration.





	Field of Sunflowers

He isn't the first man I have ever loved. Far from it. I am an adaptable fellow, and I find beauty in both sexes, and from many walks of life. I have an unfortunate nature that is thirsty for new things; often I cannot stop myself. When I see beauty I must embrace it. I most certainly saw it in him. 

Vincent van Gogh is a man such as I have seldom seen. He is so far from ordinary as to be (God forgive me!) an alien from another world, but comely, dear God, so handsome! Hair as red as new copper and a closely-trimmed beard of similar hue, and green eyes, a deep green like the most verdant of forests. A straight nose that narrows almost to a point (perhaps this is his only flaw) and full, beautifully-shaped lips. 

He is solidly-built, stocky without being fat, broad throughout the shoulders and back, flat belly, legs muscular from the enormous deal of walking he does as a daily habit. He wears his clothing as if it had been flung at him from a distance or a great height - trousers sagging at the knees and buttocks, shirt gaping open at the neck. Van Gogh moves quickly everywhere; he paints quickly, with great slashing strokes as if he were attacking the canvas in a fit of rage. He has enormous personal charisma. I can say without exaggeration that my desire for him grows exponentially whenever I am in his presence. At night I lie awake in my bed, painfully aware of him just the other side of the wall, sleeping or not, and it is all I can do not to rise and go to him, hold him down, cover his body with mine, claim his mouth, own him. Knowing he is there, and lacking the courage to take what I want, simply turns the dagger in the wound. 

It was his idea that we paint together, side by side, like comrades in some war he has invented in his mind, but I find this impossible. Being near him is painful for me on a wholly sensual level, but the _manner_ in which he creates annoys me! Truly, he paints like a madman. It unnerves me, destroys my concentration. I just want him gone - and as soon as he is gone, I yearn for him. I want him back again. So I have risen early this morning and I intend to leave the house before he wakes. He was up most of the night, smoking and drawing, so he will sleep for a while yet. I can take some bread and cheese and a flagon of cold water and escape.

****

My plan succeeds. I am up and out of the house before Vincent even wakes. I spend the day sketching near the old Roman ruins, sitting or standing as I feel able, concentrating entirely on the work in front of me. Sometime after three in the afternoon I am drowsing under a tree, listening to the drone of bees and fighting sleep, when I see Vincent passing by. He is carrying his usual assortment of canvases and brushes, his box of paints, his easel. He is heading for a field of sunflowers the other side of town. I tell myself I will rest for a while, napping while the August sun pours its heat down on me, but sleep eludes me. 

I am thinking, of course, of him. In the end, I abandon my comfortable bed in the grass and, packing up my supplies, I go looking for him. I find him without too much ado - rather, I find his easel first, standing unattended among the sunflowers, the box of colours open on the ground beside it. I am struck, suddenly, with a violent fear that he has somehow harmed himself, although I know not why this particular fear should possess me. I walk but a handful of steps and I find him.

Lying on the ground, sound asleep, one arm flung above his head, the other resting at his side. He is as beautiful in sleep as he is awake, perhaps more so. The restlessness that haunts him, that possesses him in waking life is absent. He is serene.

Serene and so very, very beautiful. I would like to paint him in this aspect...

I would like to paint him naked. 

In a trice I fold myself down beside him, lying on my side as close to him as I dare to be without touching. His skin is hot, reddened by the sun, a faint flush dying along the strong column of his throat. His thighs are slightly parted, his cock a gentle bulge inside his loose linen trousers. I slide my hand under his shirt, taking the heat of him against my palm, and he stirs, opening his eyes to gaze at me. "Paul." There's no surprise in his voice. It's as if he expected to find me here. "Did you miss me?"

Before I can reply, he reaches out and clasps the nape of my neck, pulling my face to his, his mouth hovering so close to mine there is scarcely a breath between us. "You did miss me," he says. 

The kiss, when it comes, is incendiary. I listen to myself groaning, clutching at him, pulling him on top of me. I want him to be the aggressor; I will willingly submit to him. He raises himself and pulls his ragged shirt over his head, baring his muscled chest with its dusting of red hair. He holds me underneath him, his strong thighs clasping my waist, and he strips me mercilessly. I raise my hips, allowing him to pull my trousers down, until I am naked and he is naked too, and we are pressed together, our hot skins slick with sweat. 

He kisses my chest, teasing my nipples with the tip of his tongue until they stand up in hard points. He draws my paint-spattered fingers into his mouth, each in its turn, and sucks and sucks, until I am sobbing with pleasure, my cock leaking fluid. The sun is blinding me; I have to close my eyes. "Oh Vincent," I breathe, and my voice is ragged with desire. "Oh God, Vincent, please..."

He slams his pelvis into mine over and over, savage in his desire, determined to take what he wanted. My legs fall open on either side of him and I give myself to him. His cock is pressing against my entrance, seeking ingress, and I want that, I've done that before with other men and I know I am willing to allow it, with him, with Vincent. We have nothing to smooth the way, so he satisfies himself with this and it's enough. 

It's so much more than merely enough. Too soon, my desire reaches the ultimate conclusion and I spend myself in violent bursts, gasping, my chest compressed under his weight. He arches his back and he is there as well, his face contorted with the power of his climax. I cannot look away. He is so beautiful in this, spending himself against me, his seed pulsing into the space between our joined bodies. He kisses me, the caress almost violent, setting his seal upon me. When he pulls away, I keen for him. I want him on me. I want him in me, fully and entirely. I want this man to own me. 

I am actually weeping. He leans over me, tracing my tears with his fingertips. "Shhh, Paul. No, don't cry." He kisses me gently, and he is my Vincent again, my gentle friend. 

He stands, dresses himself, and reaches down a hand for me. "Come, let's go home." I rise to my feet and pull my clothing on. I feel wrung out, emptied, drained of everything except my love for him. 

"Come on," he says again. We gather our easels and our canvases, our boxes of colours and our brushes. I hold his hand in mine until we are in clear sight of the village, and then I let him go. 

The End. 

**Author's Note:**

> I've never written Gauguin's voice before, and I'm not as familiar with him as I am with Van Gogh, so I hope I've gotten his voice right. I referred to his letters to try and get a general idea of his manner of speaking and syntax.


End file.
